Push, push, and his hand sank in. A giggle escaped a tiny, curved mouth. Push, push.

“Papa!”

The pouty lips tightened as strong, gentle grips curled around under his arms.

“Frodo, get up off this rug.”

The child weighed his body down against the hands.

“Fro…”

“A moment, Papa, please?”

A pure glee was shining out of those blue, beady eyes as his father, sighing, laid him back down carefully onto the soft, feathery carpet. Frodo laughed softly and tapped on a space beside him on the rug.

“Come sit with me, Papa!”

His father gave up.

“But only for a very short moment, all right, Frodo? This carpet has to reach your Uncle Bilbo before dark.”